The quest for the Slurpee Holy Grail.

Summer may be winding to a close, but don’t let anyone tell you it’s over yet. Technically, we have until September 22 to suck the marrow out of this season—and you better believe I’m talking about Slurpees, the pumpkin spice lattés of the warmer months. As any child tall enough to reach the handles of the machine on their own will tell you, these frozen slushes are best enjoyed in mashups of at least two super-sweet, frequently incongruous flavors. Which combinations won’t just freeze your brain, but blow your mind? I was determined to find out.

The varieties awaiting me at my local 7-Eleven were Coca-Cola, Piña Colada, sugar-free Watermelon Lime, Lemonade, and Cotton Candy, making for a total of 10 distinct two-Slurpee combo drinks. As it turns out, filling up 10 Slurpees at once is an excellent way to alarm normally unflappable 7-Eleven clerks, two of whom came over to make sure I was okay during the laborious process, just in case it was a cry for help. I enlisted three selfless friends to taste-test the Slurpees alongside me, in part so I wouldn't be tempted to finish all of them myself and succumb to sugar madness (technical medical term). But also for journalism. Please note that some of those flavors were summer specials that are phasing out of stores now, so catch 'em while you can!

Here’s the thing about Slurpees: They’re delicious. If you’re the type of person who enjoys an unreasonably sugary beverage, then it’s hard to really go wrong with your choices. (Although not impossible, as you’re about to read.) Let’s dive in.

THE LOSERS (SAD!)

Coke/Watermelon Lime most definitely did not play well together. The result left my throat feeling gunky with corn syrup. As for the taste, I’m sure you’re familiar with the unmistakable odor of oddly fruity, can-simmering trash that’s gone a few extra days without being picked up in the summer? Yeah. That. Piña Colada/Watermelon Lime was gross, taking home the dubious honor of the only Slurpee sickly sweet enough to make my face twitch. As a child, I briefly attended an indoor soccer day camp that I hated, deeply, at which we were served unrecognizable fruit juice in individually sized plastic jugs, which I also hated, perhaps even more deeply. That’s what this combination reminded me of. But the single worst offender was Coke/Piña Colada. I found this shocking, because this specific pair was once upon a time my preferred Slurpee. But college ruined it for me. The association between this and Malibu and Coke, served via a dive-bar soda gun so mildewy it’s almost inoperable, is inescapable. Time kills all your dreams.

THE MEH

Remember when Diet Coke with Lemon was a thing? Because Coke/Lemonade is very much along those lines, if you replace the concept of “Diet” with its polar opposite. The Slurpee version is unpleasantly medicinal, like a lemon cough drop. I can’t believe I sort of, kind of, semi-enjoyed Cotton Candy/Piña Colada, because it is possibly the single sweetest thing I have ever put in my mouth, not to mention reminiscent of sun tan lotion.

The brown plus bright-blue slurry that is Coke/Cotton Candy is a deeply unappealing sight. I have never been in the depths of the underground facilities where radioactive nuclear waste is stored, yet I have no doubt that this is roughly what would await me down there. That said, while it’s intensely sweet, the Coke manages to mellow the cotton candy a little. (Only in the context of Slurpee World does Coke fall on the bitter end of the sugar spectrum.) It tastes like a liquefied child’s birthday party—pizza crusts, stale buttercream, dinosaur-print wrapping paper, and all—or the ugly stepsister to Baja Blast in the extended Mountain Dew family of flavors. I found Piña Colada/Lemonade to be too sour to finish a Big Gulp of, but I should note that everyone else in the room enjoyed it a lot. (For the record, though: I am right.)

THE WINNING COMBINATIONS

Personally, I was horrified by the prospect of drinking a Cotton Candy Slurpee, but the flavor proved to be my dark-horse MVP. The first winning combo I tried was Cotton Candy/Lemonade, in which the tartness of the lemonade—it really is tart!—cuts through the clowny sweetness of the cotton candy. Cotton Candy/Watermelon Lime reminded me of the irresistibly intense flavor blast deployed by a tropical Starburst, and somehow managed to leave the same granular texture behind in my mouth as actual cotton candy. It’s possible that’s because the dispenser was due for a cleaning, but I’d prefer to think positive.

THE TRANSCENDENT

There was one pairing that rose far above the rest, comprised of two flavors I wouldn’t have given a second thought to before this experiment. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the love of my life: Watermelon Lime/Lemonade. It’s somehow both refreshing and exactly what I’d imagine melted Jolly Ranchers to taste like. (And again: that Watermelon Lime is, improbably sugar-free.) Slurpee sommelier pro tip: Add Pimm’s and cucumber slices or a generous glug of dry rosé for a slightly more grown-up experience.

Photo by Molly Fitzpatrick

THE UGLY

When you are faced with 10 half-finished Slurpees, something happens. As if in a dream, as if you’re floating above your own body, you find yourself dumping them all out into a large bowl and sticking straws into it. This uber-Slurpee looked like a witches’ brew for a diabetes spell, though its Pixie-Stix-dissolved-in-a-vat-of-Kool-Aid taste was surprisingly non-disgusting. I wish I could offer you a better description of the flavor profile, but the drink gave me an almost instant headache, so I gave up on taking notes and laid down on my couch for the next hour and a half. Happy summer!